


and who is good will soon be beautiful

by hihoplastic



Series: The Worst Witch Tumblr Prompts [14]
Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-05-24 20:23:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14961560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: “She’s beautiful,” Pippa says softly, almost wistfully, and Hecate prays neither of them notice the blush that takes over her cheeks. “I mean, it! It’s beautiful. The tattoo,” Pippa stutters, and Dimity laughs, and Hecate can feel her stare when she says gleefully,“Oh, this is gonna be fun.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \- @victorianlesbian, and @fligurl86 asked for a hicsqueak tattoo fic, and my brain obliged.  
> \- inspired by [this ask](http://amillionmillionvoices.tumblr.com/post/174990843869/hecate-hardbroom-as-a-tattoo-artist-pippa) from my A1. <3  
> \- title from sappho (anne carson) - if not, winter.

Hecate hasn’t gotten a tattoo from anyone but Dimity Drill in sixteen years. Not so much out of loyalty (there is that, a little, though she’d never admit it) but she’s a creature of habit. Dimity knows her style, knows what she likes and doesn’t. She trusts her, though the woman annoys her to no end, always talking about her sports league and gym habits and other things Hecate generally tunes out. She isn’t quite sure if she’d call Dimity a friend (though it hurt, when she found out she’d been excluded from her birthday party) but she’s kind and intelligent and good at what she does, and that’s enough.

She’s also, however, frustratingly observant, and it’s only twenty minutes in to her session for an ornate willow tree on her calf that Dimity looks up with a smirk.

“Her name’s Pippa.”

Hecate blinks, and snaps her gaze from the blonde woman across the room that she’d...evidently been staring at.

“Pardon?”

“Pippa Pentangle. She’s new. Just moved here from London.” Dimity grins. “Single, far as I know.”

Hecate doesn’t flinch, even as her heart hammers. “I don’t know why any of that information would be relevant to me.”

Dimity snorts. “Cause you look like you lost a carrot and found a cream cake.”

Hecate glowers, shoves her headphones in her ears and pointedly does not look at anything other than the ceiling for the next two hours.

She barely notices the time pass until there’s a blur of pink in her peripheral vision, and Pippa is leaning over Dimity’s shoulder. Hecate switches off her music.

“What’d you think?”

Hecate stares resolutely st the ceiling.

“She’s beautiful,” Pippa says softly, almost wistfully, and Hecate prays neither of them notice the blush that takes over her cheeks. “I mean, it! It’s beautiful. The tattoo,” Pippa stutters, and Dimity laughs, and Hecate can feel her stare when she says gleefully,

“Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

—

Pippa’s work is...pretty. It’s soft and colorful and occasionally cartoonish, bright, happy things done in bright, happy ways.

She only has a few tattoos herself, which Hecate finds odd. There’s an owl on the inside of her forearm and a small bee just below her knee she spies one day when Pippa wears a short dress that sends her first into a coughing fit and Dimity into stitches.

Other than that, Hecate can’t see anything, and she can’t help but wonder if there are others, hidden. If they’re secret, or private. What it might be like to know, for Pippa to show her—

She cuts off that line of thinking before it becomes too real, too desirable.

Still, every time she’s in the shop - which is more frequently, it seems - she finds herself sneaking glances at Pippa as she putters around the shop, talks to clients, works on someone.

She’s chatty, but not in the way Dimity is. Dimity tells everyone her entire life’s story.

Pippa asks questions. She gets to know people, but shares so little of herself, and Hecate wonders why. Why someone so bright, so perfect, would be so quiet.

She feels a kinship with that she’s not sure she has any right to. Especially given that she’s only said about five words to Pippa, and three of them were rude.

But sometimes, she’ll be sitting with Dimity, and when she glances up Pippa will be staring at her, a small smile on her face. She always looks away, turns her attention back to whatever it was she was working on, and Hecate doesn’t dare to hope. Imagines she was probably lost in thought.

Dimity rolls her eyes, and says a bit loudly, “Can you cut it with the tension already? Some of us are trying to work here.”

Hecate glowers, and across the room, Pippa flushes and smiles.

—

It’s a stupid idea. Quite possibly her stupidest, but that doesn’t appear to be stopping her.

Ada greets her kindly, as she always does, and asks if they’re still on for tea that weekend (they are) and Hecate inquires after her students (she still teaches part time) but she can’t stop her gaze from flickering toward the back of the shop.

“Dimity’s with someone at the moment, but she should be wrapping up soon, and she’s got some time if you like.”

Hecate swallows. “Actually, I was hoping Miss Pentangle might be available.”

Ada’s eyebrows skyrocket into her hairline and it doesn’t escape Hecate’s notice that she has to forcibly bury her grin.

“Of course. Let me see.”

Ada makes a show of checking the calendar and Hecate raps her nails against the counter.

“You’re in luck,” Ada says finally, before she turns and hollers back into the shop, “Pippa, you’ve got a walk-in, dear!”

“Be right there!”

Hecate’s stomach flips at the sound of her voice, and she realizes this was not only stupid, but ridiculous and foolish and while Ada’s back is turned, she twists on her heel and all but runs out of the shop.

—

It’s been six months since Pippa started working at the shop, and they’ve exchanged a grand total of perhaps 10 sentences.

Pippa will occasionally wander around to see what Dimity’s doing now (each planet, relative in size, in a line down her outer thigh).

Hecate tries not to tense at the way Pippa stares, her eyes sweeping over the bared skin.

Though most of her body is covered in tattoos - nature scenes and constellations, old goddesses and cityscapes - she rarely ever shows them to anyone. She wears long sleeved, high collared dresses most days, only the single back line above her knuckle on her middle finger visible, and most don’t even notice, or mistake it for a ring.

She shivers under Pippa’s stare, her smile, and looks away.

Pippa leaves, and Dimity pauses, looking at Hecate strangely.

“Something on your mind, Miss Drill?” she sneers, but Dimity doesn’t respond as she usually does, with good natured teasing.

Instead, she ducks her head and goes back to work, says quietly, “You know she just got out of a long relationship, bad breakup. Right wanker, too, from what she’s told me.”

Hecate glances over at Pippa, standing by the desk, laughing at something Ada has said. She can’t imagine Pippa being sad. Can’t imagine Pippa being hurt. It makes her stomach clench and her face feel hot and her hands wish for something or someone to punch.

Still, Dimity doesn’t need to know that, so she arches an eyebrow, says coldly, “Perhaps you should keep other people’s business to yourself, Miss Drill.”

Dimity stops and glares up at her. “It’s common knowledge around here. The only reason you don’t know is cause you can’t work up the courage to ask.”

Hecate flinches, manages a terse, “You mistake cowardice for disinterest.”

Dimity snorts. “Hate to break it to you, HB, but if you were any more interested you’d be a neon billboard.”

Hecate clenches her jaw and looks away, silent for a long while, wrestling with herself before she asks, “Is it really so obvious?”

There must be something in her voice, some fear or anxiety because Dimity softens her words with a smile.

“Only to those of us with eyes.”

—

She makes an appointment with Pippa. Insists on paying up front, hoping it will motivate her not to back out.

For a week before the appointment she frets and curses herself and Dimity and Pippa and everyone else she wants.

She hasn’t felt like this in ages. Possibly ever. She knows she hardly knows Pippa - might find her grating or shallow or unintelligent - but for the first time in a long time, it almost feels worth the risk to find out. Worth it to embarrass herself, worth it to take a chance, worth it to get her heart broken.

She’s not so sure of that when the day arrives, and she shows up at the shop in long sleeved shirt and dark jeans, her hair up in its customary bun.

Pippa is waiting for her when she walks in, her eyes bright, hands fiddling together near her waist.

“Hi,” she says.

Hecate slowly closes the door behind her. “Hello.”

They stare at one another until Ada coughs from behind the counter.

“Right,” Pippa says brightly. “This way.”

“I have been here before,” Hecate says, then winces at her tone, an automatic response; but Pippa only looks back over her shoulder with a grin.

“Not on my side of the shop.”

She takes her into one of the open cubicals, and Hecate tries not to wrinkle her nose at the designs on the walls. Hearts and flowers and birds - god, so many birds - and trees, all in bright colors, all joyous.

Hecate thinks of her own arm, covered in black, and wonders what someone like Pippa could possibly want from someone like her.

Still, she sits when Pippa gestures to the chair, hands clenched in her lap.

“So. What can I do for you?”

Hecate hesitates. Her eyes flicker over a cute looking frog kissing another frog, and her stomach knots for more reason than one.

But Pippa is looking at her with warm eyes, kind and deep and Hecate takes a deep breath, rolls up her sleeve.

There’s a patch of bare skin on the inside of her right wrist.

“A cat,” she says.

Pippa blinks. “Cat?”

Hecate nods, licking her lips. “My—I have a black one.”

“Of course you do. What’s her name?”

“Morgana.”

Pippa smiles. “Hecate and Morgana. Quite a penchant for mythology, yeah?”

“Yes, I’ve never heard that one before,” she says dryly.

Pippa’s smile widens. “Alright then. What’d you have in mind?”

Hecate takes a deep breath, and shrugs. “Whatever you want.”

Pippa pauses in her reach for a pencil. “Are you sure? I’m not—I mean, my work doesn’t seem like your style.”

“If you’d rather not—“

“No!” Pippa says quickly, reaching out a hand as if to keep her in the chair. “I’d love to. I just—Dimity said you haven’t worked with anyone else in years. You trust me?”

Hecate doesn’t know why. Doesn’t even know if she does entirely, but she wants to find out. Wants to know if she can.

“It’s only ink,” she says.

Pippa looks a bit disappointed, but then squares her jaw and nods decisively.

“Okay.”

She spends the next ten minutes sketching, eyeing the space on Hecate’s wrist for size. Then transfers it, then stencils it to her skin.

Hecate keeps her eyes averted. Doesn’t want to see what cutesy monstrosity she’s going to end up with. But she nods when Pippa asks if she’s ready, and they begin.

It’s quiet for a long while, and Hecate wracks her brain trying to think of something, anything to say.

“Your work is very...pink,” she says finally.

“Haven’t you been keeping up with the latest trends?” she asks, a spark in her eyes as she glances up. “Black and grey is out, watercolors are in.”

Hecate purses her lips. “Vanity is very unbecoming in an artist.”

Pippa shrugs. “But, like pink, not against any sort of code now, is it?”

“I suppose not.”

Pippa grins.

—

The conversation is stilted at first. Hecate never knows what to say, doesn’t like to talk about herself. Pippa seems to be trying too hard to keep the mood bright, but eventually she tells Hecate about her breakup, the horrible relationship she got stuck in for almost a decade. Hecate mentions, very quickly, that she had a similarly disastrous relationship with her father.

Pippa asks what she does when she’s not in the chair, and Hecate admits she owns a small cafe on the other side of town, that Ada is a long time customer and friend, and that’s how she met Dimity.

They talk about tattoos and trends and Hecate even indulges a bit of shop gossip. She can hardly stop staring at Pippa, her blonde hair, the line of her jaw, her brilliant smiles.

Somehow, she makes Pippa laugh a few times, and it feels like she’s won something precious. Something just for her.

The hour and a half goes by so quickly, Hecate doesn’t quite know what to do with herself when Pippa sits back and snaps off her gloves.

“There. Done.”

Hecate braces herself - pink is fine, pink is fine, pink is fine - but when she looks down, there’s hardly any pink at all. Just an accent, in a dark galaxy - blues and blacks and purples, and little spots of white, all contained within the outline of a black cat, sitting primly on her wrist.

Hecate swallows tightly. It’s beautiful, of course, but more than that it’s her. Her style, her taste.

And it looks like Morgana, the outline. But she has the whole galaxy inside her, which is how Hecate feels sometimes - like she’s a shell too thin for everything inside her. The tattoos, she think, keep some of it safe. Protect her, even if it’s just from herself.

To her horror, she feels tears prick at her eyes and she clenches her teeth, hard. 

“You don’t like it.”

Her gaze snaps up and Pippa looks dejected, heartbroken, almost, her eyes equally wet even as she forces a mild, “I’m sure Dimity can fix it for you.”

“No.”

Pippa looks up with a frown. “No?”

“No, I—I don’t want to fix it,” she says, her voice a bit hoarse. “I love it.”

She’s never said that before, not even to Dimity. “It’s satisfactory,” or “Thank you for your talent, Miss Drill” is the most she ever manages, but this...this small thing, she loves. Loves so much it tugs something in her chest looser and looser, and unravels completely when Pippa gives a wet laugh.

“Oh, thank god. I thought you were going to murder me for a minute.”

Hecate rolls her eyes. “Hardly. The clean up would be far too tiresome.”

Pippa smiles and rubs a thin layer of ointment over the tattoo, and Hecate tries not to shiver at her touch, so light. She fails, and Pippa looks up nervously.

“Did I hurt you?”

Hecate shakes her head, unable to speak, unable to say how empty she feels when Pippa stops and pulls away.

She gently wraps the fresh ink, and arches an eyebrow when she’s through. “I assume I don’t have to give you the aftercare speech?”

“Hardly.”

“Good,” Pippa says, turning in her chair to grab something from her desk. “However, if you do have any issues, you can reach me here.”

She hands Hecate one of her business cards, with a number scrawled on the back.

“Issues?”

Pippa shrugs. “The usual. Itching, peeling, boredom, Saturday night drinks.”

Hecate lifts her gaze from the card to Pippa, sees her biting her lip, and her hands shake. She stares at Pippa and Pippa stares at her and it’s a while before she finds her voice, a careful, controlled,

“I...don’t recall having had issues before,” she says, and Pippa’s face falls until she adds, “But drinks would be...agreeable. If you—“

“Yes,” Pippa says. “Yes.”

Hecate almost smiles, ducks her head to hide the shy lift to her lips. She startles when Pippa crooks a finger under her chin.

“Don’t hide,” Pippa says softly. “You smile beautifully.”

Hecate flushes, but she manages to hold Pippa’s warm gaze for a few moments before she breaks, looks back at her wrist.

“I should go.”

Pippa nods and sits back. “But you’ll call me, right?”

Hecate clutches her card in her pocket. “Yes. I promise.”


	2. first date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- a follow up requested by @delightfullyambiguous. i mean, um, an anon.   
> \- on tumblr [here.](http://amillionmillionvoices.tumblr.com/post/177325208544/you-know-what-you-should-immediately-do-you)

“I didn’t think you were going to call,” she blurts finally, kicking herself the moment the words are out of her mouth. It doesn’t matter—she did call. She called, and they’re here, at a little Chinese restaurant across town, sitting by the window and there’s a white tablecloth and a red candle between them and it’s perfect and Pippa really should learn to keep her mouth shut.

Hecate frowns, but rather than annoyed she seems genuinely confused, and Pippa ducks her head to hide the grin that threatens to overtake her lips at how adorable she finds the expression.

“I waited three days,” she says, half a question, and Pippa nods.

“I know. It was silly, I thought—“ She waves a hand. “Never mind. I’m just—I’m happy you called.”

Hecate taps a black fingernail against the table, doesn’t seem to realize she’s doing it; she looks chagrined, and Pippa feels her stomach drop.

“Hecate?”

She blinks, her expression smoothing out, and she eyes her wine for a moment before saying, somewhat tersely, “I was told it’s customary to wait three days. To give someone time to change their mind.” Her brow furrows again. “Is that not correct?”

Pippa’s heart skips, and she barely resists the urge to reach across the table for Hecate’s hand.

“It is,” she says, “But it’s more so you don’t seem overeager than anything else. And I wouldn’t have changed my mind.”

“That seems highly illogical,” Hecate says. “If one waits exactly three days as to not appear…overeager, yet that is the custom, is it not the same as waiting one day?”

Pippa grins. “Except you’ve lost three days,” she agrees, and Hecate huffs, a slight smirk on her lips that dies after only a moment, and she fiddles with her napkin absentmindedly until she realizes, then forces herself to stop.

“I apologize,” she says quietly. “I’m not very good at…” She trails off, and gestures vaguely around the restaurant.

“You’re doing just fine as far as I’m concerned,” Pippa says, and Hecate’s cheeks pink, and Pippa steers the conversation away from dating pitfalls.

They talk about music (Hecate listens to mostly classical, a bit of jazz, and abhors anything popular; Pippa loves punk rock and 80s jams and “anything you can dance to”) and art (Hecate loathes modern art, Pippa loves impressionists) and food (Pippa loves all things sweet, Hecate, she decides, is the pickiest eater she’s ever met; Hecate prefers the term “refined palate” and Pippa laughs brightly).

“I thought you owned a cafe,” she says. “Don’t you serve desserts?” Her eyes widen in horror. “Is it a non-dessert-serving cafe? Are you that cruel?”

Hecate rolls her eyes. “We have plenty of sugary confections,” she says, and Pippa breathes a heavy sigh of relief. “I don’t enjoy them. I never said I couldn’t make them.”

Pippa frowns. “Why would you make something you don’t like?”

There’s a pause before Hecate shrugs. “It’s a business,” she says, and Pippa knows somehow she planned to say something else, the truth, maybe, but she doesn’t press.

Instead, she leans forward and asks in her most serious voice, “Does this business serve doughnuts?”

Hecate sighs heavily. “I suppose we could start,” she says, then blushes furiously and stammers and this time, Pippa does reach across the table for her hand.

“I would love that.”

Hecate jumps at the touch but she doesn’t pull away, and Pippa takes a chance, brushes her thumb gently back and forth over Hecate’s skin.

It’s soft and smooth and cold, her hands like ice, and Pippa wants so badly to warm her up, everywhere. She licks her lips at the thought, and Hecate’s eyes darken before she looks away, clearing her throat.

Pippa smiles to herself. “How’s it healing?”

Hecate blinks. “Pardon?”

“The tattoo. Can I see?”

Hecate turns her hand over and rolls her sleeve up just past her wrist. It looks good, not too swollen, and Pippa touches it lightly, hears Hecate’s sharp intake of breath.

It’s comforting to know she isn’t the only one affected. Isn’t, perhaps, the only one whose heart feels like a jumpy record player. Her skin tingles, and when she looks up Hecate is staring at her, eyes wide and almost black, and she thinks if they weren’t in public there isn’t a chance in hell she wouldn’t be kissing her right now.

Instead, there’s a too loud, pointed, “Here we are, ladies,” that makes Hecate start, yanking her hand back into her lap as she tugs down her sleeve.

Pippa withdraws more slowly, watching her, tearing her eyes away only to smile politely at the waiter as he places their food down.

He disappears almost as quickly as he arrived, and Hecate fiddles with the pocket watch around her neck.

“That’s really beautiful,” she says, pointing to it with her fork. “Your necklace.”

“Oh.” Hecate looks down and drops her hands, as if she hadn’t realized she’d been touching it. “Thank you.”

She doesn’t say anything else, and there’s a look on her face Pippa is hesitant to try to read, not on a first date. So she turns to her food for a moment before asking about the cafe (Hecate opened it after getting her degree) and what she likes to do in her spare time (read).

They disagree constantly, Pippa finds, but it doesn’t bother her—she doesn’t care that Hecate finds fashion frivolous or can’t tolerate talk radio. Hecate isn’t much of a traveler, and she wrinkles her nose when Pippa talks passionately about her summer abroad in America.

But they agree on important things—politics and civil rights and a mutual hatred of Nigel Farage.

Hecate is reticent about her own life—by the time they leave (Hecate insists on paying, and sheepishly holds out Pippa’s coat for her to slip on) she doesn’t really know much more about her than she did at the start of dinner. But Pippa feels like she knows _her._ Knows that she’s reserved and a bit sharp around the edges. Knows she has a dry, subtle sense of humor. Knows she’s absolutely terrible at flirting, and flushes easily.

Knows, without a doubt, that she wants a second date.

Standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, Pippa can’t help but stare at the way the street lamps cast shadows on her jaw, the way she rubs her fingers together nervously at her sides.

“This was…enjoyable,” she says, then winces at her own phrasing; but Pippa melts, and smiles back, bright as she can.

“Enjoyable enough to see me again?”

Hecate looks startled. “You want to—?”

Pippa nods. “Very much,” she says, and before Hecate can second guess herself, adds, “Thursday?”

Hecate nods slowly, her voice soft and almost shy. “I would like that.”

Pippa beams. “Good.”


	3. first kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- requested by @thinkmanythingsofit - thank you, dear!

Hecate does her best not to fidget at the door, but her fingers press together at her sides and her shoulders are rigid and she keeps readjusting the bag over her arm. It’s ridiculous, and frankly humiliating for someone of her age to be this nervous about a date ( _a third date_ , her mind helpfully supplies— _a third date at Pippa’s house)_ and yet, she feels the way she always feels in anticipation of seeing Pippa—a bit off kilter, but in a way she finds she doesn’t mind so much. She almost likes the feeling, the swirl in her stomach when she thinks of Pippa’s smile and the way her own cheeks tug when she thinks of Pippa’s laugh. It’s the first time she’s felt this way in quite some time, and she reminds herself every day to enjoy it while it lasts—to try not to overthink or undermine things the way she often does. Tries to think that no matter how this goes, at least she had time with Pippa, time that was enjoyable, and she’ll be fine.

Taking a deep breath, Hecate raises a hand to knock, only to be interrupted by the door swinging open, a flush-faced Pippa on the other side, grinning. “Are you going to lurk out here all day or would you like to come in?”

Hecate swallows and slowly lowers her hand, curling her fingers into a fist. “I wasn’t lurking.”

“Just doing a rather good impression of it, then?” Pippa says, but her eyes are bright, teasing without mockery, a touch of insecurity in the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and says, “If you’d rather not—”

“No,” Hecate says quickly, too quickly, and her cheeks flush. “I don’t—I wasn’t trying to—” She huffs at herself, unsure, then offers, “I brought wine.”

Pippa beams. “The magic words,” she says, and steps aside to let Hecate into the small, brightly lit apartment.

It’s cozy, and warm, and decidedly covered in pink. All shades of it, from dark magentas to ballet pinks to the occasional pop of fuschia and Hecate nearly scowls at the cactus-shaped pillow with a smiling face and a pink bow, holding a sign that reads _don’t be a prick_.

“I got that out especially for you,” Pippa says from behind her, and Hecate starts, turns, finds Pippa smirking at her from the archway to the kitchen.

Hecate clears her throat and glances back at the cactus. “I’ll be certain to keep my interior design comments to myself,” she says, passing Pippa the bag she’s brought, full of wine and sweets.

Pippa grins. “Too pink?”

“Perhaps not for an eleven year old,” she says, a bit too sharply, too honestly; but she genuinely doesn’t mean it cruelly, and for a moment, she panics, waiting for Pippa to turn away or frown.  

Instead, she rolls her eyes with a laugh. “I walked into that one,” she says, then nods her head toward the kitchen. “Follow me. I’ve got drinks.”

Hecate nods, dutifully following Pippa into her small kitchen, where there’s barely enough space for the two of them. She tries to stand back, but Pippa ushers her over, pouring her a glass of wine, handing her plates for the table, demanding she try the carbonara sauce.

Pippa holds out a large wooden spoon, hand cupped under it. Hecate falters a moment, unsure; but Pippa’s eyes are kind, patient, bright, and she hesitantly leans forward, tongue darting out to taste.

It’s a bit rich for her tastes, but good, not overly salted, and she nods approvingly, unprepared for the way Pippa’s face lights up and her cheeks flush. She stares at Hecate for a long moment before abruptly turning back to the stove, her voice a bit strained, and Hecate frowns, unsure if she’s done something wrong.

But Pippa looks over and smiles at her, says dinner will be ready in minutes and to have a seat at the table. Hecate does as requested, still able to see and speak to Pippa, and she watches Pippa work, watches her lips as she talks and her hands as she pours herself a glass of wine and for a moment, lets her eyes drift to the curve of Pippa’s waist before jolting away.

It isn’t that she doesn’t want to look—she does, terribly, but she can feel her cheeks flush and her neck feel hot under her collar and she doesn’t want to have to explain to Pippa that the sight of her in a pink apron _does things_ to her that would be considered by most inappropriate at best.

Still, it doesn’t stop her from tracking the sway of Pippa’s hips as she sets one plate down, then returns to the kitchen for the other.

There’s a salad and silverware already on the table and Pippa removes her apron before settling into her seat perpendicular to Hecate, smiling at Hecate over the food. “I hope it’s okay,” she says, fiddling with her fork.

“I’m certain it will be adequate,” Hecate says, then kicks herself for the word choice.

Pippa rolls her eyes. “You really know how to charm a girl, don’t you?” she says, and Hecate can’t help flinching at the words. She’s heard them before, with far more malice, but this is Pippa - and she wants to please her, wants to be good for her, wants and wants and wants but she always seems to push people away, whether she intends it or not. Always says the wrong thing at the wrong time, in the wrong way, and eventually, everyone leaves because of it.

Because of her.

“Hey.” Pippa’s voice startles her almost as much as the sudden hand on her elbow. “I was just kidding,” she says softly. “It was a bad joke.”

Hecate shakes her head. “No, I—you were right, I’m not—this isn’t—”

“You brought donuts, didn’t you? From the cafe.”

Hecate blinks, frowns, nods slowly. “Yes. They’re in the bag.”

“Did you make them for me?”

Hecate flushes, licking her lips. “I—” She thinks about lying, saving face; but when she looks at Pippa, her expression is open and curious and her fingers, still on Hecate’s arm, are moving back and forth softly. “Yes.”

Pippa smiles, small but true, and leans forward, kissing Hecate’s cheek. “Then consider me charmed.”

Hecate’s cheeks burn and she looks away, but can’t quite help the way her lips quirk up, the quick glances she spares at Pippa as she settles back in her seat. Pippa keeps doing the same, a small grin on her face, and they eat in silence for a moment before Pippa says,

“How do you feel about cat videos?”

It sparks a debate - of course it does - Pippa arguing passionately for the proliferation of cute and mindless distractions, while Hecate asserts they’re a waste of energy, and that one’s time could be put to much better use doing something productive.

“But they make people happy,” Pippa says, twirling a bit of pasta on her fork. “Isn’t that good enough?”

Hecate rolls her eyes. “That would be your argument.”

Pippa stills, fork settling on her plate. “What does that mean?”

Hecate looks up at the suspicion in her voice, the hard edge she’s never heard from Pippa before, and blinks in surprise. “I—nothing,” she says quickly, shaking her head. “I merely meant—” She pauses, takes in Pippa’s defensive posture, her narrowed eyes, and swallows tightly; her usually terse reply won’t be effective, she knows, not here, so she sets her fork on her plate and says slowly, honestly,

“I meant it as a compliment. You see the world so... brightly.” Hecate chances a glance at Pippa’s face, finds her watching Hecate avidly. “It’s a disposition I am at times... envious of.”

Pippa stares at her for a long moment, as if assessing her words; then she slumps, stares guiltily down at her plate. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to—” She huffs, picking up her fork again and pushing her food around on the plate. “My ex didn’t share my... disposition, as you call it. He got a kick out of proving me wrong whenever possible.”

Hecate’s heart clenches along with her fists, curled on top of her thighs. She hates the look on Pippa’s face, hates the sadness, the insecurity, hates the person who put it there. She hasn’t known Pippa that long, not really, but she finds herself oddly protective of her. Finds herself wanting to make her smile, one that reaches her eyes.

But she doesn’t know what the right thing to say is, what to do in these kinds of situations. She’s too uncomfortable, too awkward, and they sit in silence for a moment before Pippa forces a laugh, clears her throat, and downs the rest of her wine.

“How about a movie?” she suggests, and Hecate nods, follows Pippa to the sofa and perches uncomfortably on the edge. She doesn’t pay much attention to what Pippa picks, too distracted by watching her face, the lines that have settled around her eyes, the tightness in her neck, and she wants to do something, anything, to erase the look on Pippa’s face, suddenly so guarded.

She knows the basics of what happened - that her ex of eight years cheated on her, that she left him, moved to London with little more than a single suitcase and a lot of hope.

Hecate knows the feeling of betrayal, but she doesn’t know how to talk about it with another person, how to commiserate or comfort.

Pippa picks some sort of romantic comedy without asking for Hecate’s input, and settles in the far corner of the sofa. Hecate knows neither of them are really watching the film, and at times she can feel Pippa’s eyes on her rather than the screen.

Hecate’s gaze flickers to her again, and she’s struck, not for the first time, by how beautiful she is. Despite her better judgement, she lets her eyes drift over her frame, curled into the arm of the couch - her bright pink dress that flares out at the knees, her bee tattoo, slim legs and, around her ankle, a tattoo of a daisy chain.

Hecate’s never seen it before. It’s a bit faded, a bit amateur, but Pippa keeps one hand on it, rubbing her thumb over one of the flowers, and Hecate knows it’s special. She hesitates, finally manages to clear her throat, to nod toward the tattoo. “May I ask?”

Pippa frowns for a moment, then follows her gaze, looks down. “Oh.” She unfolds her legs, extends her foot so Hecate can see it better. Hecate swallows tightly and resists the urge to touch.

“It’s lovely,” she says, and Pippa laughs softly.

“It’s old. I was 15 I think when I got it. My first one.”

Hecate nods. “Does it mean anything?”

Pippa smiles softly. “It’s for my family. Four flowers, for my parents, me, and my brother. My dad travelled a lot, and when he came home he always brought my mum and I bouquets - mine were always daisies.”

"They symbolize cheerfulness.”  

“How do you know that?”

“I read,” she says. “Instead of watching cat videos.”

Pippa stares at her, and for a moment, Hecate thinks she’s pushed too far, her joke fallen flat; then Pippa’s lips quirk, and after a moment, she laughs.

“You’re a jerk,” Pippa says, smacking her with the cactus pillow. Hecate startles, then rolls her eyes.

“And you have terrible taste in films.”  

Pippa scoots up the sofa closer to Hecate, affronted. “What’s wrong with _Notting Hill_?”

“I don’t know,” Hecate drawls, “The plot, the acting, the heteronormativity...”

Pippa rolls her eyes. “Oh come on. There must be _some_ romantic movie you enjoy. Even as a guilty pleasure.”

Hecate shakes her head. “I don’t own a television.”

Pippa gasps “That’s just—that’s just—how do you _live_?”

“Perfectly well, thank you.”

Pippa stares at her, jaw slack for a moment, before her entire face lights up. “That means you’ve never seen the Great British Bake Off.”

Hecate rolls her eyes. “I’ve heard of it. It sounds—”

“Perfect,” Pippa says, reaching for the remote. “You run a bakery.”

“Tea shop.”

“With _baked goods_.”

She turns off the movie and pulls up the show, eyes gleaming as she settles closer to Hecate, her knee brushing Hecate’s thigh as she leans back into the pillows.

“I hardly need a lesson on how to bake, Pippa.”

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll learn anything,” she says, “I just want to hear your commentary.”

Hecate rolls her eyes, but doesn’t protest when Pippa loads the first episode; she does, however, provide commentary, almost instantly irritated by the male judge, half the contestants, and the use of the word ‘scrummy.’

Beside her, Pippa laughs brightly throughout, snorting into her hand at Hecate’s dry observations and harsh critiques.

Hecate finds she actually doesn’t hate the show, not really; but her sarcastic quips seem to be keeping Pippa in good spirits, so she keeps it up, sighing dramatically as one of the contestants butchers a bakewell tart.

“Amateurs.”

Pippa laughs. “Well yeah, that’s the point.”

“I wouldn’t let any of them set food in my kitchen.”

“Run it with an iron fist, do you?”

“The bakers need discipline,” she says, and sighs. “Particularly Mildred.”

“Mildred?”

Hecate tells her about her youngest employee, a bright girl with stellar decorating skills and a decent baking eye - when she isn’t destroying Hecate’s kitchen or setting souffles on fire.

She tells Pippa more about how she started the cafe, about the business, and the more she talks, she notices, the more relaxed Pippa becomes. She leans back into the cushions, tucking her feet underneath her.

Shuffling closer still, Pippa slowly lowers her head to Hecate’s shoulder and reaches in her lap for her hand, intertwining their fingers.

“Is this okay?” she asks when Hecate’s voice stalls, her body suddenly warm and flushed. She’s still stiff spined, barely leaning back against the sofa, but Pippa doesn’t seem to care, and slowly, Hecate nods.

“It’s fine,” she says, though her voice feels like gravel and she loses track of what she was saying, too distracted by Pippa’s thumb brushing over her hand, the feel of Pippa’s hair against her neck.

“I’m sorry I got so defensive,” Pippa says after a moment of silence, and Hecate wishes she could see her face, her expression.

Hecate drums the fingers of her free hand against her knee absently. “It’s understandable.”

There’s a short pause before Pippa sighs, readjusts her head on Hecate’s shoulder. “He told me I was naive. That I see everything through rose-colored glasses, and I shouldn’t expect people to be…”

“What?” Hecate says dryly, “Kind?”

Pippa shrugs. “It was his excuse. That I didn’t see it coming.”

Hecate’s anger flares, and she tightens her grip on Pippa’s hand. “I hardly see how you can be blamed for his actions.”

“I don’t know,” Pippa says softly, sadly. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I get caught up in my own head too much. Maybe I don’t—”

“Stop,” Hecate says, a bit too sharply, and Pippa raises her head, then looks away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, then, more to herself, “The new girlfriend doesn’t want to hear about the old boyfriend, Pippa.” She starts to pull away, but Hecate clings to her hand, shaking her head.

“That’s not what I meant,” she clarifies, trying to keep her voice level, soft. “Merely that you shouldn’t speak badly of yourself. Particularly when you’ve done nothing wrong.” Staring down at their hands, Hecate swallows, says carefully, “And even if you had, I contend that he was a fool. To ruin what you had. To...let you go.”

She hears Pippa inhale, but doesn’t dare look up, doesn’t want to see the look on her face; doesn’t want to see that her words haven’t mattered, that they haven’t helped. That they’ve fallen short, the way they always do.

She stares at their hands, hers pale and bony, nails painted black; Pippa’s hands warm and soft and nails bright pink, and wonders not for the first time what someone as bright as Pippa sees in someone like her—cold and austere and distant.

She startles at the hand on her cheek, eyes darting up to find Pippa watching her, her eyes wide, a wet sheen over them and she knows she’s said something wrong, done something wrong, and she opens her mouth to apologize, but Pippa shakes her head, covers her lips with her fingers, and Hecate’s heart trips, then falls completely as Pippa slides her hand over Hecate’s cheek, leans forward, and kisses her.

It’s soft, a barely-there touch and Hecate stills, stunned, unable to move. Pippa pulls back after a moment, eyes wandering over Hecate’s face, her lip caught between her teeth.

“Hecate?”

Her voice is so soft, nervous, unsure, and it cracks something in Hecate’s chest, makes her want to comfort and reassure and she finds her own hand brushing Pippa’s hair back from her face, finds her fingers lingering over Pippa’s skin.

She isn’t certain who leans forward first, or if they’re together, but the next thing she knows she’s kissing Pippa and Pippa is kissing her and it’s a bit strange—it’s been a long time, longer than she cares to admit, that she felt comfortable enough with anyone to get to this point—and their noses bump and Pippa laughs softly but she doesn’t pull away, slides her hand around the back of Hecate’s neck and pulls her even closer, and she feels warm and flushed and, for the first time in a long time, happy.

Her lips quirk in a smile against Pippa’s, and even as the kiss ends, Pippa doesn’t draw away. Instead, she presses her forehead to Hecate’s, breathing ragged, a content smile on her face.

Hecate brushes her thumb over Pippa’s cheek, relieved when Pippa tilts her face into her palm.

“Hecate?” Pippa murmurs.

Hecate swallows, pulling back just enough to see her face, her eyes. “Yes?”

Pippa licks her lips, hesitates, then says, “Will you split a donut with me?”

Hecate blinks.

The words sound muddy in her head, her own heart still pounding, skin tingling, and it takes her a moment to process the request, the strange, second question that seems buried underneath. Pippa looks far too hopeful, far too nervous for it to merely be about a treat, so Hecate nods, and places a soft kiss to the back of Pippa’s hand.

“Yes,” she says simply, and Pippa’s face brightens, her smile so luminous before she leans forward and presses a quick kiss to Hecate’s lips before darting off the sofa and into the kitchen.

She returns a moment later with a pink-frosted donut in a paper towel, and curls up on the sofa next to Hecate, bodies close together and her head back on Hecate’s shoulder.

Hecate tries to relax, as much as she can, letting herself lean back into the couch, lets her arm wrap around Pippa’s shoulders, her fingers playing with the ends of Pippa’s hair.


End file.
